“I Saw The Devil” by Frederick Foote

I’m not a believer. I don’t deny the existence of God. I just don’t know. In my black community, that makes me something of a pariah. It’s tough to live like that, but I do.

On the other hand, I have read the bible at least ten times. I love reading the bible, the King James Version, but I don’t believe a word of it. I don’t share my opinion of the bible with many of my black friends. I need the few friends I have left.

I got no time at all for devils and demons and that nonsense.

It’s ten AM and it’s already 101 degrees, the fifth day of 100 plus degree heat.

I’m checking my agapanthus along the driveway. I just crack open the side gate to make sure Jake, my 100 pound red Doberman, has plenty of water. I have my hand on the gate about to block Jake from rushing out into the front yard when I feel this wave of fear hit me like a blizzard to the brain. I freeze in the triple digit heat.

Jake hits the gate like a bull out of a rodeo chute, knocks the gate right out of my hand. He’s making a noise, not a fighting noise or his cat killing noise something else… deep and fierce… ugly… disturbing.

Jake charges straight toward the street but there’s nothing there.

I glance down the street, coming down the middle of the street, a brother as black as the grave. Tall, too tall dressed in a suit the color of midnight madness, that’s even darker than he is. The suit jacket’s draped over his right arm. His shirt’s as white and as bright as new fallen snow on a bright day. The suit and shirt are in such sharp contrast that I have to look away. I look at him out of the corner of my trembling eye.

Feet must be size 18. His shoes are shining like onyx, like his bald head.

He covering half a block with each step. Fucking impossible!

Jake’s headed to where the man will be on his next step.

The man arrives. Jake leaps.

The thing don’t break stride or turn its head, glances at Jake, a slight side, long glance.

Jake crumples like he hit a brick wall at full speed. The impact knocks a brilliant squeal of anguish, a heart breaking sound from my dog. Jake hits the ground, claws his way back dragging his useless back half across the scorching, black, asphalt whimpering and shaking, moving as fast as he can, leaving a trail of hot shit to mix with the hot tar of the melting street.

I know it’s going to glance at me. I squeeze my eyes shut so tight my eyelids hurt.

I make my fist so hard my muscles knot up.

My vise jaws splinter my teeth.

A concussive wave knocks me on my ass. There is a soft squishing sound as I fall onto the driveway with my eyes still sealed shut.

I crawl into the backyard. I don’t open my eyes until I have closed the gate.

I clean up in the back yard. Put my soiled clothes in a garbage bag and the bag in the garbage can. I wash off with the garden hose.

I go in, take a forever shower, sitting on the shower floor washing away my tears.

I go check on Jake. He won’t come out of his doghouse. I pull him out by the collar. His back legs are OK now. He can stand and walk, but he just shakes like he got distemper or something.

And his eyes are hard-boiled gray, blind. My dog is blind.

I go in. I lock all my doors and windows, close my blinds and drapes.

I go to the back bedroom, the one furthest from the street. I turn on all the lights. I sit there with my Bible. The one I don’t believe a word of. I pray to Him I have doubts about to keep me awake. I know if I sleep, that thing, the devil, will open my eyes and his glance will fall on me. I’ll look into its eyes. It will be the last thing I ever see.

Bio:

I was born in Sacramento, California and educated in a racially segregated elementary school in Vienna Virginia until I was twelve and returned to Sacramento’s economic and racial segregated schools. I served three years nine months in the USAF and retired from the State of California in 2001. 

I have been married for 46 years and we have two daughters. I started writing short stories in the spring 2013 semester in Dr. Silcox’s creative writing class at Sacramento City College.

My family, friends, instructors and my MeetUp group, Sacramento Pose and Poetry Writers, have tolerated me, encouraged me and inspired me to write and to improve my writing. I thank you all. You can also find my work at everydayfiction.com.